


Shining Bright

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aromantic, Asexual Character, Canon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 00:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11002653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: This is just a little piece I wrote for Ace Mis Week over on Tumblr. Featuring Bossuet, aro-ace Enjolras, a night at the opera, and some heartfelt conversations on the walk home. Canon era.





	Shining Bright

** 1829. **

Somehow, Bossuet convinces Enjolras to the opera.

“As you know,” Bossuet says, leaning against the doorframe of Enjolras’ bedroom, his coat tossed haphazardly on the sofa in the sitting room beyond. “Poor Courfeyrac remains down with a head cold, and begged me to not let the ticket go to waste.”

“He was lamenting to me yesterday that he might never recover,” Enjolras says, his lips curving upward. “Though it was a bit hard to take seriously, given how stuffy his voice was. Combeferre enjoys the opera more than I do, you might ask him?”

“He has a late shift at Necker,” Bossuet says.

“Oh, yes, I suppose he does,” Enjolras says, running his thumb across his chin. “I’d forgotten. Grantaire?”

“He’s occupied with…something or the other, this evening,” Bossuet says. “And claims he’s seen this twice already.”

“Feuilly?”

“Enjolras,” Bossuet says, grinning indulgently. “You know as well as I do that he’s meeting with that group of Polish migrants and our usual printer, to see if they might work together.”

“I would rather be doing that,” Enjolras mutters.

“I know,” Bossuet says, fond. “But too many of us, and it gets suspicious. So. Will you come? The plot is a bit revolutionary, Bahorel says. He’s seeing it a second time. You might like it.”

“I might like four hours’ worth?” Enjolras asks, skeptical.

“You never know,” Bossuet says, patting the side of his arm. “Besides, I guarantee a good time. Joly and Musichetta will be there, as well as Bahorel and Prouvaire. And perhaps Adelaide,” he continues, referencing Bahorel’s mistress.

“What’s the name of the opera?” Enjolras asks, giving in, unable to say no to Bossuet’s earnest grin.

“ _Guillaume Tell_ , By Rossini,” Bossuet says, a twinkle in his eyes, knowing he’s won. “Be in front of the _Opéra Le Peletier_ at 8 o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I’m never late,” Enjolras says, raising one eyebrow.

“No,” Bossuet says, chuckling. “But you might be tempted for this.”

Enjolras laughs in return and Bossuet clasps his shoulder, leaving Enjolras to contend with his wardrobe. He opts for a pair of gray trousers with a black coat and waistcoat, selecting the red cravat Courfeyrac gave him on his last birthday, claiming it suited him. He looks at his hair in the mirror, tilting his head; he’d neglected to get it trimmed, yet finds he likes it longer. It was out of fashion, but he couldn’t claim to care about that. He smooths it back, tying it in a queue at the back of his neck, one of the more stubborn wavy curls falling out and framing his face.

He arrives at the opera at a quarter of eight, met with Bahorel’s wide grin, and feeling the eyes of some of the women gathered outside sticking on him as he approaches.

“Well don’t you clean up well, my dear friend,” Bahorel says. “My goodness.”

“Don’t tease him,” Adelaide says, flicking Bahorel in the arm.

“He is my friend I will tease him as I see fit,” Bahorel says as Enjolras reaches them. Enjolras bits his lip against a smile, seeing the amusement in Bahorel’s eyes.

“Well, Bossuet invited me,” Enjolras says, fiddling self-consciously with his collar. “I wanted to dress as I should for the evening.”

“You look perfect,” Prouvaire says, coming up and pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek, wine on his breath. “Flawlessly handsome as always.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Enjolras says, feeling his face warm. “But thank you, Prouvaire.”

“Ah but here he is!” Bossuet says, coming out with Joly and Musichetta on each arm. “I told you he would come, Joly.”

“So you did!” Joly exclaims, kissing Musichetta’s hand as he breaks away, coming up to Enjolras, embracing him. “Hello, Enjolras. You look splendid. I think you might enjoy yourself tonight you know.”

“I’m certain I will, in your company,” Enjolras says, fond affection in his voice. “Do lead the way, Joly. I shall have to tell Combeferre how I like this, he has been anxious to see it. And Courfeyrac will demand a full recounting of the evening, I am sure.”

Enjolras follows his friends inside, feeling more gazes catching on him, one young lady giggling and blushing as he passes. He nods awkwardly at her; Courfeyrac’s told him that he shouldn’t glare to ward off advances, though he certainly doesn’t want to lead any young woman on, even accidentally. They settle in their box, and Enjolras finds himself lost in the conversation and then the play itself, finding he likes it better than expected. As the night wears on his friends pay less attention to the opera and more attention to their partners. Bahorel’s whispering something to Adelaide, one of his hands intertwined with hers. Musichetta sits between Joly and Bossuet, one hand in Joly’s and the other patting Bossuet’s cheek. Enjolras doesn’t know the specifics of whatever the arrangement between the three of them is, but they seem happy, and though he has no experience in the matter, he thinks the three of them all look rather in love with one another. People would certainly call it unconventional, but in his mind it’s no one’s business but the people involved. He looks around the box, realizing he’s lost sight of Prouvaire, unexpectedly drawn in by the opera as he was.

He looks around the theater, seeing more than one couple closer together in the darkness than propriety would allow in the light. He wonders if he ought to feel sad or out of place given he’s without any romantic partner in a room filled with them, but he doesn’t. Then he wonders if he ought to feel strange that he _doesn’t_ feel sad. He shakes his head, freeing himself of the tangle of thoughts, turning his attention back to the story.

When the opera ends Bossuet offers to walk him back home.

“You don’t have to,” Enjolras says, waving him off. “I’ll be all right.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Bossuet says. “If anyone tried to rob you I daresay they’d find themselves on the wrong end of your swing. Your _canne de combat_ skills come in hand with or without your cane, don’t they? Perhaps I should just like to share your company for a while longer. You did come out to the opera just because I asked.”

“In that case,” Enjolras says, letting Bossuet take his arm. “I’m glad to have it.”

They walk along the starlit streets toward Enjolras’ rooms, Paris still alive around them even at this hour. They chatter about various things until silence falls, and words come spilling out of Enjolras’ mouth before he really knows what’s happening.

“Bossuet?” he asks, drawing his friend’s eyes back to his face.

“Hmm?” Bossuet asks, curious, sensing the nerves in Enjolras’ voice.

“Do you…” Enjolras struggles, annoyed at the ineloquence. “I know women look at me in the street, sometimes with a particular sort of…interest.”

“So they do,” Bossuet says, gentle, and sensing Enjolras might divulge something. “But you don’t like it?”

“I…” Enjolras tries. “I am simply uninterested in returning the sentiment. I am not…I don’t have those desires, as others do. Is that odd?”

“No,” Bossuet says without hesitation. “You are allowed to be whoever you like and feel however you like about this.” He pauses, looking serious, the usual kindness still resting in his eyes. “I have desires for Joly and Musichetta both,” he continues, the first open admission of something Enjolras long suspected. “And you would not say that’s odd, would you? Even if I’m sure some grumpy old priest might.”

“No,” Enjolras says, shaking his head, and Bossuet pulls them a bit closer, tightening his grasp on Enjolras’ arm in encouragement. “I think that’s the business of the people involved, and no one else’s. I’ve never been quite sure why others might be so morally concerned about who was in bed with who, anyway. It doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Bossuet smiles, eyes bright. He tilts his head.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Enjolras answers. “Whatever you like.”

“Do you feel desires for other men?” Bossuet asks. “It would be all right if you did. I just admitted my own to you.”

“No,” Enjolras says, looking down at the paving stones, the rain from earlier still pooling between them, lit silver by the moon. “I have thought about that, too. I simply…I have never really felt any push to engage in, well…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Bossuet says, gently interrupting him. “I understand what you mean.”

“Do you think there’s something…wrong with me?” Enjolras asks, disliking how vulnerable he feels, but he cannot do anything but trust Bossuet, even still. “I feel that I…I love all of you,” he says, voice cracking slightly over the words. “I love this country.”

“Enjolras,” Bossuet says, stopping and looking Enjolras in the eyes. “No. There’s not a single thing wrong with you. And no one could accuse you of not loving, my friend. You shine with it every moment of the day. You brighten the world with your love. Not wanting to go to bed with anyone doesn’t change that.”

Enjolras nods, feeling his smile grow, his chest lightening.

“Thank you, Bossuet,” Enjolras says.

“Of course,” Bossuet says, wrapping an arm around Enjolras’ waist because he’s too short to sling it around Enjolras’ shoulders. “We both know each other a little better now, don’t we?”

“So we do,” Enjolras says, the warmth in Bossuet’s eyes filling him up with affection. “So we do.”

 


End file.
